Frying in the Dark
by rakatakat
Summary: An aspiring New York chef finds himself in the care of a set of two rather peculiar brothers, fond of proverbs and pabulum alike, managing and preparing food for the best restaurant in Rome.  mild language, first person


Italy is an odd place. The streets are very narrow and sloping, and most are made of cobblestone. It doesn't much suit legs in a hurry.

No, instead it suits the very mellow, slow-moving natives. Each one seems so happy, so at ease with their surroundings. Everyone seems pleased with the day. Unfortunately, no one seems to have the time.

Let me introduce myself. My name is Déan Louise, but my friends just call me Lou. Louise sounds a bit girly, and hearing Ms. Louise on calls from the cable company can get old. I used to live in New York City, managing and cooking for a well-known home cooking restaurant owned by a man no older than I. He was very eccentric, and for lack of a better word… odd.

For someone in his twenties, he owned a wide array of nice suits and a rather extravagant Volvo. He told everyone to call him Al, like the song. It was clear that owning a restaurant wasn't Al's sole profession; I can't even grasp how he came to acquire one in the first place. He never seemed to care about or enjoy spending time cooking, but he sure knew how to appreciate a hot plate of food.

For an owner, Al was hardly around. He'd stop in maybe once a week after the lunch rush and have an entrée, in varying moods. Some days, he would be full of energy, chatting up and laughing with the waitresses and other customers. Other times, he seemed very tired, sick even. When he looked run down, I always tried to make his meals special, from recipes not on the menu, recipes I learned from _mi famigila._ Weird as he could be sometimes, I felt bad for him, I felt it was my responsibility to cheer him up. And people knew the magical healing qualities of my grandmother's special lasagna.

And, strange as it sounds, I felt pretty close to him, when no one knew the first thing about him. What were his other jobs? How old is he? Does he have a family, or wife, or girlfriend? Was Al even his actual name? There was a lot of gossip. Someone once said he was a secret agent, working for the government. I heard he owned a mansion in D.C. But all I knew is that he was a man with more than enough money to support himself, a potential family, and a restaurant full of employees.

Al took special care of me, and it felt good knowing he trusted me with his business. With him gone so often, I was practically the boss. He even called me his 'Number 1'. Promotion after promotion came until I was at the top, and all the additional praise from critics and colleagues helped. I was making a great living doing the things I wanted around good people. Al always made it seem like he wanted me to succeed in this business, he made me feel like this was where I belonged.

So it was a bit odd when he offered to ship me off to Rome.

"You'll LOVE it there," he promised me. "Trust me, The Venezianos own the nicest restaurant in the country. They would be lucky to have you!"

"I guess…" It was all to weird, all happening too fast. Italy seemed… far off. Sure, my family is from there, and all my signature meals are drenched in tomato sauce, but, living there? Cooking in a new kitchen? With new people?

"Hey," Al consoled in a softer tone. "It's a big decision, but it's also a big opportunity. Expand your horizons. Go and learn from the original. A test run can't hurt. If you like it there, stay! If you don't, we're still waiting for you with open arms."

Have you ever tried denying a free, first-class ticket and 5-star vacation home _anywhere?_ Well, neither have I.

So here I find myself fulfilling his offer, becoming a chef in Italy. Assuming I can make my appointment in time.

Coincidentally, the language barrier was an issue I hadn't given much consideration. I only had what I learned from my family, and the phrases "Yes", "No", and "Does my butt look big in this dress?" will only get you so far in the Italian suburbs.

Miraculously, a hole-in-the-wall tourist shop was able to direct me to my destination, mere blocks away. And not a moment too soon. Somewhere, three chapel bells rang out, signaling the time. _Shit!_ I cursed. _Late, late to meet my boss on my very first day. I might as well just head back to the airport right now._

I wove down the streets hastily, dodging pedestrians and obstacles. On the final turn, I could see the grand street sign of the restaurant: _Veneziano's_ written in elegant cursive on a solid brick wall, with notations below it I didn't have time to decipher.

As I approached, I noticed the venue seemed oddly quiet for lunch on a Sunday. The stairs leading to the entrance seemed empty save for a lone, slender man fumbling with a few paper bags full of fresh produce. I gave him no mind as scuttled up the stairs and into the front doors.

It was a grand place, the dining halls stretching in all directions. It was utterly vacant, save for a few scattered employees. But was no time to admire it now. I strode hastily down the centerpiece catwalk until I came to familiar doors; chrome, double-swinging with a circular window on each.

I paused and took a deep breath before mustering the courage to step inside. The kitchen was equally vast and equally empty, but more simplistic when compared to the intricate dining halls. Traditional brick ovens curled down out of the halls, exactly like the classic pizza shops in Brooklyn. Most of the stirring and serving utensils were wooden, as well as cooking wines and spices resting on strudy mahogany racks. There were stations, too many to count, lining the edges of the room and crossing over to meet the the middle. It was definitely a change from Al's quaint and modest joint in Union Square.

And my new boss was definitely a change from Al.

"You're late," a voice stated. At first I thought it was some kind of intercom, for I couldn't find its owner. But on cue, he emerged, walking out from behind a rolling rack of pots and pans, wiping his hands on a towel.

Slinging the cloth over his shoulder, he approached me with a stern look on his face. He looked even younger than Al, hardly over 19. I got a better look at his features, which were classically Mediterranean. His skin was light olive, and his hair was dark brown, long enough to hang in his face and to the base of his neck. A particular-looking strand of flyaway hair hovered to the side of his head, as if it alone had been forgotten to be combed down.

"Well?" he said, resting a hand on the station closest to me and another on his hip. "What do you have to say for yourself?" He had a very light Italian accent, as if he spoke English often.

"Uh-um," I stammered. He was being so straightforward. What if I say something dumb? I assume he's Romano, but he looks so young, it's hard to take him seriously. "Some of my bags were lost, and I had trouble hailing any cab…"

He narrowed his eyes at me, as if pressing for signs of a lie. Ultimately, he shrugged and decided I was telling the truth.

"I suppose I'm in no position to criticize you," he seemed to complain. "I'm unprepared myself."

Suddenly, a loud crash rang out followed by a clanging of dishes. We both peered at the entrance, and noticed the skinny boy from the stairs scrambling to gather the groceries on the floor.

"Ah, _scusami_!" he cried. "You wash those off a little, they'll be fine." He swept them back into their paper bags with his arms and placed them on a neighboring counter before scurrying over to the two of us. I noticed that they looked similar; same features, same eyes, although his skin was a few shades lighter. He even had the same displaced hair on the left side of his head. Maybe they shared a broken hairbrush.

I looked back at my assumed boss, and found him rolling his eyes dramatically.

"_Ehi_," he sighed. "Yes, I am the head chef, and the owner, Romano Vargas. This is my sous chef, and younger brother, _Venez_- er, Feliciano."

"Ah, _ciao_!" Feliciano stepped out from beside his brother to offer me his hand. His accent was more pronounced, and seemed a good deal more cheerful than his sibling's.

I took it cautiously, and he shook my hand energetically. "Ha, yeah, chow…" I mumbled.

"So you're Alfred's kid? He had so many nice things to say about you!" he continued with a speeding vigor. "'Oh, Lou cooks as good as you, if not better", he told us. I would be a first if you made it though, you'd be the only American in the whole kitchen! Maybe all of Rome! What was it you said about _Americani in Italia, fratello?_" They eat alive, the alive things that they eat…"

Romano smirked. "Eaten alive."

"Ah, yes!" Feliciano snapped his fingers. "They are eaten alive. Whatever that means. You all have so many silly sayings." He waved his hand away from his body, as if shoving away the thought. I swallowed nervously as I saw Romano's mean smile grow a little wider.

"Anyway," he continued, slowing his pace a little. "Is… Is it true that your name is DeBartolo?" the younger brother leaned in uncomfortably close, eyes wide with anticipation.

"Uh, yeah." I managed an awkward smile. "Déan Louise DeBartolo. Do- Did you know my family?"

Even Romano blinked, seemingly impressed with my answer.

Feliciano on the other hand, lit up. "_Aye_!" he cried. Constantino and Emilina, the best cooks in all of Calabria! I remember them so well, they had to close up to move to America. What a loss!"

"Uh," I stammered. I raised my eyebrow, wondering how he knew my grandparents. They moved to New Jersey more than 40 years ago; I didn't think either of them met that age _combined_.

"He_ means_," Romano interrupted, glaring at his sibling. "He remembers the stories of them well."

Feliciano flinched slightly, as if his mistake was somehow more costly than a simple misspeaking.

"Their recipes are still used in those parts, but they have lost their touch," he continued for Feliciano. "Calabria is a ways away from here, but New York is even further. We're, uhm, _grateful _to have you here." Romano spoke the compliment as if it tasted sour in his mouth.

"Oh," I verified. "I see."

"Anyway!" he clapped his hands together firmly, the sound echoing throughout the vacant kitchen. "I closed early today, just for this. The entire kitchen is yours. I trust you can find your way around. Make us some lunch, would you? I hope you won't disappoint."

Romano started away, his brother trailing his heels.

"W-wait!" I panicked. I didn't want them to leave me alone to cook in this strange new place, without so much as a visual tour. Or, for that matter, thorough instructions. "Do you have, uh, an…order?"

He stopped and placed his hand on his chin, but didn't bother turning around. Ultimately, he threw his hand away on a whim. "Surprise us," my boss ordered.

'_Okay, right away, chef!'_ Is what I planned to say, but it instead came out sounding like "_Yieusafcef_."

I watched them leave, powerless and petrified. Romano spoke again twice, once to request Feliciano snatch a bottle of wine and two glasses, and twice to remind me to wash the groceries his little brother had dropped.

When they disappeared behind the swinging double doors, I let out a shaky breath, and wondered aloud why I would never be blessed with the luck of a normal boss.


End file.
